


5 Times Harvey Specter Receives a Ridiculously Charged Injury and How Mike and Donna Will Worry About It For the Rest of Their Days

by helo572



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Connected Ficlets, Continuity Between Ficlets, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, During Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Harvey Specter is Bad at Feelings, Hurt Harvey, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: What it says on the tin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! so i got sucked in T E R R I B L Y to suits. im currently on the second season and churning through it as we speak. i noticed in browsing through fan fiction there's stacks of hurt!mike but nothing for hurt!harvey. so, here is my pet project to rectify that problem because i love this glorious bastard, god dammit.
> 
> my first time writing for this fandom, so please let me know any canon and/or character inconsistencies!
> 
> please note this is the first and only entry which is pre-canon (i.e. no mike).

“Here to see Harvey Specter,” says the nondescript man standing at her desk, slicked black hair pulled back into a small ponytail, eyes hidden behind thick-framed sunglasses.

 

Donna’s gaze lingers on him for a few moments; his strange appearance, the aura of _not right_ floating somewhere in the back of her throat. She swallows it down, turns to her phone. “Of course. He’s currently in a meeting, but I can-”

 

“It’s urgent.”

 

Her fingers pause on the keypad, halfway dialed to Harvey’s office number, and she levels him with the best blank look she can manage with the receiver pinned between her cheek and shoulder. “I’m sure he won’t be long,” she answers, measured and level. So is the next question, “You don't have an appointment, do you?”

 

The man’s gaze is piercing, even through his dark glasses. They make him look sickly, what with the white pallor of his skin. He is sweating, she realises, nearly shining under the harsh lights.

 

“Something came up,” is the answer, also careful, but far more calculating.

 

“It’s just Mr Specter doesn’t usually take clients this late. If it’s urgent, I can...” Now, the man’s eyes venture to Harvey’s office, and Donna trails off. That _something_ grips her throat in that moment, cutting off her words, the air to her lungs.

 

Harvey is shaking Mr Hathaway’s hand, smiling warmly. A few more things are said, then he’s gesturing for the door. When he looks up, he sees Donna first, then her guest. She’s known him long enough to know that client-branded smile falters, terribly so.

 

He recovers by the time he turns back to his client, to open to the door. “Mr Hathaway,” she hears Harvey say, but his eyes are on the pair outside of his office. “Please do have a pleasant evening.”

 

Nothing is amiss as Mr Hathaway’s eyes only linger on Harvey, not his assistant or her visitor.  “Thank you, Harvey. You too, especially after meeting me so late.”

 

“Of course.” They exchange a final smile, and then Mr Hathaway is gone. Which is when Donna realises they are alone up here, with nothing but the sense of _wrong_ extending to her chest, her stomach, her everything.

 

There is a long beat of silence between Mr Hathaway’s departure, this realisation, and when the man pulls the gun from his waistband and levels it at Harvey.

 

It’s a handgun, black like his hair. It takes him a moment to point it at Harvey’s chest. Donna’s eyes travel from the weapon to Harvey’s face, because the bastard is still smiling.

 

“Jonathan,” he greets him pleasantly. “I had wondered when I’d be getting a visit.” That smile morphs to grin, and by the Lord, Donna is going to slap it straight off his face. This is not fair, this is not how bad feelings should turn out - a _gun_ and Harvey grinning down the barrel of it. “At this hour, though? I know the intent was not to arouse suspicion, but I mean, come _on_ .” He gestures around, casting his eyes over Donna, but she dares not move. “Late night at the office? They’ll know what you did, and those,” He brushes his nose, even having the audacity to laugh. Donna wants to scream. “sunglasses won’t help one bit. Plus.” He leans just that bit closer, so the gun almost rests against his chest. “Can you even _see?_ ”

 

Their guest, Jonathan, hadn’t moved the entirety of this exchange. He’s sweating profusely now, beads running down his forehead, and his answer is breathless, “Enough to shoot you dead.”

 

Harvey does not falter. “And what good will that do? Whatever you want, I’ve evidently got it, and putting a bullet in me means you _definitely_ won’t get it.”

 

Jonathan tries a shrug. The gun goes with the movement, drawing Donna’s eyes to it, how close it is to Harvey’s chest. “Depends on where I put it.”

 

Harvey shrugs, a _you're not wrong_ gesture; it's unspoken because three of them all know it. “ _But_ before it gets to that, why don’t we,” A gesture back towards his office, another smile, another glance at Donna. “sit down. Have a talk about this like civilised men.”

 

“Civilised men,” repeats Jonathan, like it’s mocking, and Donna knows it most certainly is. The connection between him and Harvey is long lost on her, but the current situation is not. It ending with Harvey shot and bleeding is _not_ where she wants it to go, but with that infuriating smile, it may well be.

 

“Jonathan,” she tries instead, gently, begging for control over her wavering voice. In the corner of her eye, she sees Harvey look to her in alarm, mouth open in a silent  _no._ More so, because Jonathan starts and points the gun at her, too. Her hands come up without thinking, as does the flinch. Their attacker says nothing, but she can hear his harsh breaths, can hear Harvey’s silent protests from his office door. When her throat isn’t tight, she swallows and continues thickly, “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before. I’m Donna, I’m his assistant. And I-”

 

“ _And_ she has nothing to do with this,” finishes Harvey, firmly, which has the gun’s attention flying again to him. His head, this time, as Jonathan lunges forward and sticks it under his chin. Donna screams, she can’t help it, and Harvey bites down his next words with an icy glare.

 

“Jonathan,” he says again, but Jonathan presses the gun in hard, enough to cut him off. “Look,” he croaks. “Whatever you want, you can have. Civilised men, whatever, or if you wanna scrap like dogs we can do that too.”

 

Now Jonathan _does_ bark a laugh, the gun still pressed firmly in place. “Neither of you remember me, do you? Just my name. The thing anybody’d be able to tell you, with you dragging it through the papers.”

 

Harvey gets out, as if he were commanding a judge, “Jonathan Smith. Arrested for evidence tampering. Seventh of July, nineteen-ninety-eight. You were a dirty cop.”

 

It was the answer, for one of two reasons. The first, Jonathan reels with a noise akin to a sob. "No!" he cries, stumbling back from Harvey, gun wavering. Donna's eyes follow the movements painfully, right down to the minuscule details. " _You_ painted me as one! Ruined my career! My family! My _life_!"

 

The second reason: after his outburst, he turns back and whips Harvey over the side of the head with the gun, hard. Donna screams, but Harvey doesn’t have time to. He drops like a dead-weight. The sound he makes when he hits the carpet is deafening to her ears.

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Jonathan warns. He's towering over Harvey's crumbled form like he can't believe it, and Donna is highly aware she's simply an afterthought. And she's four steps from Harvey, never having registered moving.

 

She freezes at his words, but can't take her eyes from Harvey. Harvey who is  _b_ _leeding,_ a trail of blood running from his temple, red and angry. “Please don't do this,” she whispers; it's all the voice she can muster.

 

At her words, the gun turns to her, and so does Jonathan's gaze, edging on gleeful. “Don't worry,” he replies, equally as softly, and it's unnerving enough Donna suppresses a violent shiver. “The next one will be a bullet.”

 

Words stolen from her, Donna can only shake her head.  _Please_. Jonathan doesn't hear her, he can't. Instead he's gesturing with the gun, saying something she suddenly can't hear beyond the ringing in her ears; the panic welling in her throat.

 

Yet, she can't move, even as his voice climbs in volume, even as he roughly takes her arm and shoves her towards Harvey's office. She only moves when the gun turns on her again, words flowing out of Jonathan's mouth like the blood from Harvey's head. She stumbles straight past Harvey - unconscious Harvey, hurt Harvey, in-danger Harvey - and into the second safest place she knows.

 

That is when the gun goes off. It pierces through the static in her ears, clear as a bell.

 

In the doorway to Harvey's office, rooted again, Donna can do nothing but watch: Jonathan gasps and promptly collapses against her desk, clutching at his shoulder. The gun clatters out of his hands and across the floor, landing at Donna's feet. Then, after a beat of silence, after the scream wanting to erupt from her throat is swallowed, Mr Hathaway appears from the corridor. He's holding a gun of his own, it's levelled at Jonathan, but his gaze is levelled at Donna.

 

“Miss Paulsen?” are his first words, followed by, “Are you alright?” and then, “I'm calling the police right now. Don't worry.”

 

He talks, but quickly moves to Jonathan, who has since sunk down to the carpet. Their attacker is sitting against her desk, head hung, shoulder cradled. She can see blood creeping from between his fingers, to where Mr Hathaway shot him.

 

The realisation sends her back to reality with a snap, where the words to her finally digest. “I’m-” she goes to answer, then stops, shaking her head. A careful swallow, then she says, “I’ve got Harvey.” She’s careful, measured; her words and slow steps towards her boss. The ever-capable assistant.

 

Mr Hathaway is crouched in front of Jonathan, murmuring something to him, but he's quick to pull away: "Are you sure-"

 

She just placates him with a dismissive smile and a nod of her head. She doesn't trust her words, not yet, but she trusts Mr Hathaway to keep their attacker slash would-be-killer at bay. That's all the thought she will give to it for now. It's to avoid asking about his own gun, to dwell on how he’d just saved _both_ their lives, to look at Jonathan again. It draws all her attention to Harvey; tunnel vision, heart pounding, hands shaking.

 

He’s sprawled on his back, blood free-flowing from a large welt on his forehead. The suit and everything else is immaculate and she hates it, hates seeing him so _still_. She will not get the image of him out of her mind for a long time.

 

“Harvey?” Kneeling at his side, he doesn’t stir. She tells him anyway, “You’re okay. We're okay.” She takes his hand, squeezes it tight. “I've got you.”

 

Commotion comes later, when the police and their contraband arrive. That’s when Harvey’s eyes crack open, where he’s safely cradled in Donna’s lap. His brown eyes are hazy, not-all-there, but Donna makes sure she’s still there for him.

 

“Hey,” she says, softly. “You with me? Harvey?”

 

He hums a noise of affirmation, quiet and thankful, and Donna leans down to place a final piece of assurance on his hair.

 

“You’re going to be just fine.”

 

He is fine; both of them are fine following their ordeal. Downstairs, a security guard sustained similar wounds to Harvey, Mr Hathaway is commended by Harvey and the Police Commissioner himself, and Jonathan is returned to prison in direct violation of his first and only bail.

 

“That would be an understatement,” Harvey joked, a week later, back behind his desk with that grin plastered back on his features. Nothing but an impressive bruise remains as evidence, but it’s still purple and angry enough for Donna’s eyes to be drawn to it.

 

“Well, they called personally to update you,” she says, thankful for the normalcy of stepping into his office again.

 

He just smiles, at Donna and the news she bears. “How kind of them.” Yet, it's still the inflection of his voice which says, _Thank you, we’re done_ , so Donna turns to leave. Except he adds, softer this time, “Donna, wait.”

 

Turning back, she smiles again, looking first at that awful bruise, then at the heavy look in his eyes. That smile has turned gentle, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “I didn’t get a chance to privately thank you, either. For everything you did.”

 

“ _Thank_ me? For doing my job?” He rolls his eyes, leaning back further in his chair, purely with the purpose of letting her have it. “Oh my, this really helped you turn a new leaf, didn’t it?” The amusement helps them both smile, but she also remembers the blind panic from that night, which draws a sigh from her lips. She adds, “I know you would do the same for me, Harvey. And I didn’t like seeing you hurt.”

 

“Trust me, that feeling is mutual.”

 

“I mean it, Harvey.” she affirms, setting her jaw, standing a little straighter in the corridor. At his silence, she takes the invitation to wander in and take a seat. He watches her with those heavy eyes again, head cocked slightly to one side. “It was terrifying. Both what happened and then seeing you like that.” Yet, she knows she won't string any more out of him, not after he started the conversation, and not on his first day back. With a shake of her head, she continues, “So for the love of God, please, don’t you go doing anything that like again.  _Please_. I swear it’ll be the death of me.”

 

There he does laugh, but still regards her with an apologetic smile. “What, because you lose your job, or-”

 

“I lose bragging rights to being the best legal secretary to the best closer in the city, of course. Jobs are easy, anybody'll hire me, but not bragging rights, Harvey. They mean a lot to me.”

 

It almost pulls another laugh from him, she can tell, but instead it jostles the words floating around his head only his lips. Slowly, he sighs. “Donna, I know you mean it.” The affirmation and feelings are nice, having her concern validated, seeing him confronting what happened. “And I did mean my thank you. You're not just my secretary, you know that.”

 

The words are wonderful, pulling a smile to her lips and a blush to her cheeks. Being proven wrong even more so. He's got a hand on his desk, fingers drumming at the glass, so she reaches forward to give it a squeeze.

 

“Thank you, Harvey.”

 

He takes her hand in return, still smiling. She returns it wholeheartedly. He reaffirms, “Thank  _you_ , Donna.”

 

The both of them are unable to wipe the smiles of their faces for the rest of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is early canon, season 1! enjoy <3

The ruling goes with the gavel, descending over the courtroom with a  _ bang _ . Harvey sends a charming grin over to the defendant and his defeated lawyer, who's just been sentenced to a further hearing for assault allegations, piled on top of his hefty fines for fraud.

 

“How’s that for your first rodeo?” He turns the grin on Mike next, expectant.

 

Mike, rolling his eyes, stoops to entertain him. “Oh, very rowdy,  _ partner _ .” He leans closer, sparing a glance to the man they just sentenced, who is glaring dagger into the back of Harvey’s head. “You… do know it’s not my first trial, right? This is like,” He counts on his fingers, just for dramatic effect, which has that unamused line appear on Harvey’s forehead despite his grin. “my fourth.”

 

Already halfway to the doors, Mike nearly misses Harvey roll his eyes. He starts after him, shaking his head. He’s enjoying this, the company, the banter; the spring in his step can’t be just from the win, after all, notably because it’s paired with that dumb grin. It’s leveled at Mike like a punch. 

 

“It  _ is _ the first where you got to use the word criminal,” he points out, when Mike’s caught up, as if they’ve just won tonight’s lotto, and Mike should be thanking  _ Harvey _ for it. “And that’s definitely distinguishing a rodeo from a fashion contest.” They’re out the doors, into the halls, back to the firm. It’s only halfway through what will likely be a long day, not counting the handover of case files to the D.A Office.

 

“I did always pick you as a runway kind of man.”  _ That _ makes Harvey pause in stride, turning around to wag a finger at him. Mike throws another one, “You know, flair the dramatic.” It’s not enough - Harvey just raises an eyebrow - so he gives it one more shot, with a gesture, “And skinny ankles.”

 

“Hey!”

 

Mike flees, laughing. He makes halfway to the car still grinning, then turns to thank him,  _ actually _ thank him, for bringing him along on this case. Except he’s not there, it’s just the bustle of the courthouse plaza and him paused on the stairs, alone.

 

Who knew he could be so sensitive about his tiny ankles.

 

They’re not late by any means, just wasting daylight hours as Harvey would chastise him for, so it’s that mission Mike trudges back into the courthouse with. And there’s Harvey, still in the hall, talking to the defendant.

 

_ Ambushed _ . It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and his heart stutter when unbeknownst to the rest of the life going on here, their acquitted man takes Harvey by the arm and shoves him into the closest room. Mike’s starting after him before his brain can process the warning signs of  _ not right _ , and how Donna told him once how good Harvey is at attracting them.

 

Opening the door, he expects a heated argument, perhaps interaction from the man’s lawyer before his assault charges are worsened. He is  _ not _ expecting the  _ crack _ Harvey’s nose makes when he’s punched, hard, nor how he collapses against the closest chair like his legs have forgotten how to work.

 

Mike freezes, he can’t help it. The  _ not right _ settles over him like an ice cold blanket; the look in Harvey’s eyes, the blood on his fingers as he pulls away his hand from his face. He has the audacity to look offended, just for a split second, then he  _ laughs _ .

 

“Kieran-” he tries once, and that’s it. Another punch, straight into Harvey’s gut. He makes a harsh  _ oof _ sound and doubles over, nearly losing his footing. That’s his words finished, his bravado, that grin from the courtroom, all confirmed as he starts spluttering, struggling for air.

 

“You son of a bitch,” hisses their acquitted man, or soon-to-be-acquitted-for-more-assault-charges man,  _ Kieran _ . Mike hadn’t bothered to learn his name, it was a cut-and-dry case as Harvey put it, but neither of them had counted on him having a bone to pick. Evidently neither had his lawyer. “You think this is  _ funny? _ Huh? Big lawyer man, not smiling so much now-”

 

“Oh shit,” Mike can finally gasp out, because  _ again _ , Kieran raises his hands and Harvey actually has a sliver of fear behind his eyes. “Hey!”

 

_ That _ stops him, and also Harvey, whose eyes fly to Mike. There’s a loud, almost deafening, beat of silence as they all share glances.

 

Mike swallows. “Kieran, listen.” He takes a step forward, and with Harvey and Harvey’s attacker’s eyes on him, he feels less of a lawyer than he’s ever fault so far. This reminded him of nights with Trevor. And yet, here he was, noticeably with the same shred of protectiveness fuelling him as he glances at Harvey. Then his eyes are back on the defendant, who’s watching him like a hawk. “Anything you do from here, it’s just going to make it worse. Just - walk away.”

 

Kieran laughs, a bitter sound; a man that’s got nothing left to lose.

 

“Away from my job?” he asks Mike, with real emotion in his voice. It’s  _ definitely _ a good thing his lawyer hadn’t put him on the stand. “My family?  _ You _ just forced me into that, Mr Specter. May as well hit two birds with one stone, if that’s all I’m going to be from now on.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be.” He takes another step forward, and there’s that surge of protectiveness again when Harvey dabs at his nose - it’s gushing, Mike realises, a trail of red down the front of his otherwise immaculate suit. “Just leave it at the that. Two birds. The rest isn’t even  _ up _ to Harvey, I’m just saying, you can make it easier on yourself here. Walk away. And  _ if _ he decides to press charges for this, there’s only so much he can say. And if he’s beaten to a pulp,” he laughs, he has to. He’s nervous out of his mind and completely out of his depth, in a courtroom as a fake lawyer, and  _ protecting _ Harvey Specter while he bleeds half-collapsed across the way. “he’ll have to plenty to say.”

 

Now Kieran looks at Harvey, and Harvey just scowls. A  _ yes, of course I’m pressing charges  _ scowl, and then,  _ it’s because you ruined my suit, you ass  _ scowl. A moment of consideration from the other party, and there it is: “Fine.” Mike lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “ _ Fine _ .” Another final glance over Harvey, over Mike, then Kieran’s retracting back to the halls of the courtroom. Over his shoulder: “Bastard had it coming, anyway.”

 

The doors slams closed. At the same time, Harvey sags to the floor, and Mike rushes forward to catch him. He’s too far away, too focused on the blood still dripping from Harvey’s nose, too frozen.

 

“Holy shit, Harvey,” are the first words out of his mouth. “Are you good? Let me see-” He doesn’t want to touch him, it seems a violation of their agreement somehow. That, and Harvey’s shaking his head.

 

“Had worse,” he grunts out.

 

There, he has to laugh again. Nerves eat him up and spit him out. “That certainly does  _ not _ comfort me.”

 

“Well, it’s supposed to.” Harvey’s speech is pained, breathless, and just on the edge of a slur. It’s not comforting, it’s  _ not right _ , and Mike hates how it all sits in his stomach. “And stop - stop sitting there looking like I’ve lost a limb. I’m  _ fine _ . Go - go.” He waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the door, which they both ignore is shaking. “Go get someone. A guard, his lawyer, the Queen of England, I don’t care.”

 

“What about -”

 

“ _I’m_ _fine_.”

 

It stings. But, he treats everyone else the same: the guard who insists he goes to the hospital, Kieran’s lawyer who’s already talking charges, the ruling judge, a few dozen other guards who ask him question after question. Mike hovers awkwardly throughout the whole ordeal, watching the lines on his forehead crease and crease as the day ticks on. His stubbornness has him, eventually, in the back of Ray’s car with an ice pack to his nose and a permanent scowl on his features.

 

Intelligently, Ray does not prod him. “Where to, sir?”

 

“Home.” Then, a glance at Mike, and Harvey sighs. “The office.  _ Then _ home.”

 

The silence is grating, until Harvey sighs again. He settles back into the seat and closes his eyes. Mike almost asks him if he’s okay, but Harvey beats him to the mark, “ _ Really _ , I’m fine. Not the first time, A, that I’ve been punched, or B, I’ve been jumped over something like this.”

 

“Well, it’s  _ my _ first time,” the answer comes out more hostile than Mike intends. “And forgive me for being concerned when I saw you smacked across the face pretty damn hard.”

 

Harvey sighs again, and lets him have it. “I know.” It’s a testament to the irritation which has been holding him for the past hour and a half, that suddenly, it’s faded away into exhaustion, and likely a splitting headache. “Thank you.”

 

Mike huffs, disbelieved. Then re-considers, because Ray’s staring at him in the mirror, and Harvey is looking at him with a massive, dark bruise blossoming on his face. “Yeah, well. That’s fine. I’m - I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

He turns the exchange over in his mind for the rest of the day, which Harvey insists he take off, after dropping in the case files to Donna with a quick explanation of what happened. Paired with the fact  _ he _ saved Harvey’s skin, it makes a little more sense. It still didn’t mean it wasn’t frightening - stirring of some form of protectiveness in Mike’s chest, which Donna seems to share tenfold when he tells her.

 

“That man,” she’s saying, shaking her head, like she’s got the same headache Harvey’s currently sporting, “he’s going to be the death of me. I’m  _ telling you _ , Mike. He’s insufferable.” Only then does she take the case files, set them at her desk, and give a proper sigh. “I hope he said thank you.”

 

“He did.”

 

Donna seems surprised. “Huh, that’s good. A damn first, too. He only ever says thank you to me on a good day.” Then,  _ she _ surprises Mike by adding, “You know he boxes, right?”

 

Mike just blinks, brain still lagging, drawn in by the exchange in the car. “Huh, what? He boxes?”

 

“Yes, he’s very proud of it.” She’s smiling now, and partly Mike’s relieved, because seeing Harvey so placated in the car was chilling. At  _ least _ something is still as it should be. “If he’s still sulking tomorrow, throw in a line about his form, or his guard or something.” They both laugh, but it fades off quickly. Donna sighs once more. “You have a good afternoon, Mike. I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

 

Tomorrow comes, and Harvey’s fine, bruised face aside. People ask and he doesn’t answer, nor does Mike. He never does ask about his boxing form.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is mid-canon, early season 3! enjoy <3

Not that Mike would ever mention it, especially _now_ as they saunter into the Courthouse to wrap up this trial, he’s a little concerned about the pallor of Harvey’s skin today. Calling him sick-looking, or just that - sick - would likely prove counterproductive in court. The last thing Harvey needs, with Jessica hounding him to _get it done_ \- this ridiculously dragged out lawsuit against _Louis_ of all people - is another person poking him in the forehead.

 

The very forehead starting to sheen with sweat under the courtroom lights, noticeable as they walk in, and the forehead Harvey scrubs his hand against as they sit down because he’s sure as hell noticed he’s not right, either. The oakish light of the room points out the fact the colour from his cheeks has completely fled, and highlight the dark circles emerging underneath his eyes.

 

Last night’s rush to get their closing together probably didn’t help Harvey’s case. 2 A.M. finish followed by a 9 A.M. start this morning. At least the Chinese had been good, even better when he’d shared it poking at Harvey with movie quotes while they worked.

 

But, it makes his silence unnerving, now; not even a quipped remark about how they’re _obviously_ going to win this thing. Which they will, it was a bullshit suit to begin with, filed by the defense to drag out the inevitable loss of their company.

 

“All rise,” says the Bailiff. They rise. Harvey steadies himself on the table. Quiet words of concern catch in Mike’s throat as the Judge enters. “The Honourable Judge Peterson.” She’s an older woman, a hawk-like nose jutting out of her face on which her glasses are perched. She spares Mike and Harvey a glance as she takes her seat.

 

“Let’s get this over with, gentleman,” are her first words, and they are relieving. A quick closing, a quick jury, and Mike can confront Harvey about the existence of sick days. They take their seats, the Judge still watching them, so Mike offers her a quick smile. She asks, “Does the defense have their closing statements?”

 

Heads turn to them. Harvey’s in the middle of downing a glass of water, but he’s nodding. Once that’s gulped down, he’s quick to add, “Yes, your Honour.”

 

Something roots itself in Mike’s stomach as he rises again.

 

Eyes follow him across the room towards the jury. One step, two steps, a third - it’s there he stops in right in front of the Judge, between their table and the juror’s stand. His back is to turned to Mike, but he can see Harvey hanging his head, the tension in his shoulders.

 

It’s a pause too long, as the Judge is frowning now. “Mr Specter?”

 

Mike slowly rises to his feet, eyes on Harvey, like everybody else. He just _knows_ \- too well - how it would all slow down; how there’s just that feeling in your stomach; how the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

 

God damnit, Harvey.

 

“Mr Specter, are you alright?” The Judge tries again, now leaning in her seat, but she’s not quick enough.

 

Mike is.

 

Harvey collapses, and he’s there to catch him, sagging backwards straight into Mike’s waiting arms. The courtroom explodes around them, but Mike’s attention is on Harvey, only Harvey, and getting him onto the ground where he can’t hurt himself any further.

 

They sink down to the courtroom floor together, Harvey a deadweight and Mike an anchor. It’s in no way graceful: a tangle of limbs and a whole lot of Harvey, all six foot of him. They settle with Mike’s arms around Harvey’s shoulders, pulled into safely into his chest. His head lolls off to the side just so, and Mike rights him with a gentle hand, checking his pulse.

 

He knows what it is: the sickly pallor of his skin, the uneasiness, his silence. But he doesn’t know _what_ it is - and it could be anything. Pages flash up in his memory, medical websites he investigated for Grammy after conversations with the doctor. There’s dehydration, anything to do with diabetes, his blood sugar, a goddamn heart attack, an aneurysm, a tumor. _Anything_.

 

But Harvey’s pulse is there, strong, all that’s missing is the intelligence behind his eyes when they crack open. Relief washes over him, that Harvey’s still here - responsive as those pages would tease him. He teases the thought that of course, _of course_ you could count on Harvey Specter to _faint_ in the middle of court.

 

And, it could have been worse. There are images of him flooding Mike’s mind: collapsing against the table, splitting his head wide open; or to falling the cold, hard floor with _another_ spectacular concussion to add to his growing-list; falling with nobody to catch him, or steady him, or help him when he needs it but refuses to ask.

 

Stirring in Mike’s lap, confusion is written all over his features. Brown eyes eventually find Mike's face and he blinks, long and slow.

 

“You’re alright, Harvey.” The reassurance is automatic when the confusion bubbles into fear; Mike recognises the look, remembers the trembling which quickly sets into Harvey’s tired limbs and he realises what's happened. He’s in no position _not_ to confront it. Harvey’s already sick, he needs as much of it he can get. “It’s okay.”

 

Usually, he wouldn’t even dream of touching his boss, let alone being in such close contact with him. Soothing him. It’s like the altercation from Mike’s first few weeks, the punch-up after the Kieran Mueller trial. But, the fear of the harsh _I’m fine_ hadn’t stopped him this time, some invisible boundary the neither of them had set. The truth is, Mike doesn’t mind, and certainly does not mind now, given how uncomfortable Harvey looks when a bit of that intelligence returns and he frowns.

 

“Hey,” says Mike, again, drawing his attention. His tunnel vision works full force, but he knows the courtroom is bustling around him - hopefully calling an ambulance, ushering people out, whatever else came when an attorney was too much of an idiot to postpone when he was sick. Thankfully, Harvey keeps his eyes on Mike. He continues, low, “Harvey, it’s fine. Just lay still.”

 

Harvey considers his words carefully; Mike can see the cogs working in his mind as he comes back from wherever he had gone. Then he groans, the resignation rolling off him in waves. “Fuck,” is what he whispers first.

 

Mike huffs a laugh, he has to. It forces him to relax; Harvey’s still got his words, he’s aware, he’s okay. “That’s one word for it.”

 

The look in Harvey’s eyes brings his heart into his throat. He’s not just scared, he’s ashamed and embarrassed. Of course, Harvey knows what the talk will be for the rest of the day, for the week, for the foreseeable future: Harvey Specter’s moment of weakness. Quivering on the courtroom floor while putting to bed a textbook case. They both know it.

 

That could be Harvey’s preoccupation, or more rightfully, it should be his health. Discovering _why_ he is laying here and why Mike shushes him again as he tries to move.

 

“Harvey,” Mike implores, finding his voice. He swallows. “It’ll be fine. Just sit tight.” It feels like a lie, but it’s testament to how sick Harvey feels that he resigns then and there, at Mike’s gentle words.

 

Their next conversation isn’t until after the ambulance ride, the worried call from Jessica, and the armful of Donna he gets in the waiting room. But, the doctors aren’t concerned. A bad case of food poisoning, amplified by exhaustion and lack of sleep, a.k.a, the Chinese the other night, and how hard Harvey’s been working for Louis and the firm.

 

Maybe the damn bastard cares _too_ much.

 

“We’ve sedated him so he rests, and while everything runs its course,” is what the doctor tells them, right before they’re allowed to visit him, and it’s the words Mike can’t get out of his head while he sits there with Donna.

 

The way his memory works is he never forgets something he can understand, and this is something he understands to an inch of its life. Harvey’s love for the people around him was obvious, enough it worked him into the ground, quite literally. Mike hopes he hasn’t been the first person to catch him.

 

Donna just eyes him when Mike breaks their silence with a sigh, reaching out to grab Harvey’s hand. “You know we’re waiting for nothing,” he says, giving the man’s hand a squeeze. He gets nothing in response, of course, but it sets his heart at ease. “He won’t be around for hours.”

 

“And _I_ also know he hates hospitals and would kill me if he woke up here alone.” Donna takes his other hand, giving Mike a smile. “He also won’t believe me when I say everything will be fine.”

 

“Funny, he didn’t believe me at the time, either.”

 

The amusement hangs in the air for all of three seconds before they both sigh, looking over Harvey. It’s the middle of the day, but it’s plenty dark in here. The atmosphere is enough for Mike to want to lay down also - it was ordeal enough for Harvey, but Mike was the one who caught him.

 

“And you won’t believe me,” Donna adds, as if she were reading his thoughts, “that it’s not the first time I’ve sat here thinking the same thing.” She’s entwined her and Harvey’s hands, and with her eyes cast down, she presses a kiss to the back of his hand. “He just hates it when people worry about him.”

 

Suddenly, Mike’s got the feeling he’s intruding on something awfully intimate. Whether it’s Harvey and Donna, or just Harvey himself, it’s unclear. He swallows his heart back into his chest. “Too bad he has people who care about him.”

 

“And now one of those people is you.” She smiles again, looking down at Mike and Harvey’s joined hands, that same look in her eyes as before. “Thank you,” she says, earnestly. “He won’t ever tell you, but it means the world to him.”

 

It all goes back to normal the following day, with Harvey taking a half-day and working the rest from home. Jessica and him have a hushed conversation in his office that morning when he’s in, the same conversation Mike overhead between him and Donna in the hospital that night.

 

He remembers it, clear as day, but _what_ to do about it is lost on him:

 

“Hey,” Harvey’s voice, a whisper, but it’s not directed at Mike. It’s weighed down by sleep; he must have just woken up.

 

“Hey yourself,” answers Donna, equally softly. “You okay?” Harvey just scoffs. This is where Mike cracks open an eye, still half-feigning sleep. Harvey is turned to Donna, whose hand is cradling the side of Harvey’s face. She presses a kiss to his forehead. “I know, stupid question.”

 

He laughs this time. “No, it’s not. I’m…. I’m getting there.” He clears his throat, but leans into her touch, relaxing into the pillows as he does so. “Thank you.”

 

Donna offers him a wet smile, which is when Mike is _certain_ he’s intruding on something, but can’t stop watching. “You know,” she starts again, “you scared the kid half to death, too. He really cares about you.”

 

Harvey doesn’t say anything this time. Mike can see his eyes; they wander Donna’s face and then slowly over to him, feigning sleep in the opposite chair. Mike shuts his own eyes tight.

 

Mike barely registers her next words, “You should tell him the feeling’s mutual sometime.” It sets his heart on edge, but it’s nothing like in the courtroom, where he could taste it in his words. This one is warm and comforting and settles on his lips in a faint smile.

 

Yet, today still took its course as normal. Mike works late to finish off the paperwork for the skipped trial, no mention of Harvey or Donna, and no visit from Jessica. It’s as if nothing happened.

 

The something comes that night with a knock on his door, and no surprise that it’s Harvey. Mike welcomes him in and offers him a drink, which he politely declines. They sit on his couch and hover around how Harvey’s feeling - _better, thanks_ \- and the trial - _they postponed it to_ when? - until Harvey comes straight out with it.

 

“Listen,” is his fantastic opening argument, but it’s complemented by the hand Harvey claps on Mike’s shoulder. “I wanted to thank you. What you did - helped me. You didn’t have to do that. And I wanted to make sure you knew I’m glad you did.” He gives Mike’s shoulder a squeeze, then there’s that smile, the same one Donna gave Harvey that night. “You’re a good man, Mike, and a good friend.”

 

The praise goes straight to his head, it’s all he can do in answer, just to lean in and grab Harvey in a hug. He’s obviously not expecting it, but it’s testament to how much he means what he said that he hugs Mike back.

 

They both pull away smiling. “Any time, Harvey. I’m here for you.”

 

The day after that is normal, too, besides the thankful look in Donna’s eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is mid season 5! enjoy <3

Kleiner and Rutherford’s offices are impressive, even for second-tier law firm standards. Mike’s certainly  _ not _ gaping at the impressive staircase, the headline to the building they own - legally own - smack-bang in the middle of New York city. It’s a deep oak brown, with red carpet lining each step as it climbs to the main floor of the building.

 

Eight large steps lead up to a landing, where the reception desk sits. Around it, the staircase breaks off into two smaller parts, curving around the edge of the entranceway up two storeys above their heads. It means the ceiling is impressively high, with fantastic acoustics, meaning Donna’s heels echo all around them as they approach the attendant.

 

“Afternoon.” Donna gets them started, exchanging pleasantries and a quick conversation. Between marvelling at the architecture and how  _ on earth _ Kleiner had held onto such a gorgeous building while still operating at second-tier, Mike put together they knew each other. He was a young man, lightly blushing as Donna remarks something about a pack mule, and pats Mike’s shoulder.

 

He’s got three archive boxes in his arms, which are getting considerably heavier the longer they stand here. The third is balanced precariously under his chin, meaning he can barely take stock of anything happening down at the reception desk, only the next storey which spans the ceiling, and the rest of the building as it tries to keep up with the skyline.

 

“Let’s get cracking, kid,” she urges him, with another pat, and a gesture to the staircase off to their left. “Harvey’s been waiting for these files for a full forty minutes and I don’t want it to hit forty-five.”

 

“I’m still lost on where I became the pack mule,” he points out, as he takes the next set of steps carefully. “And why Mister One Hundred Hours a Week can’t do the simple act of ferrying over files himself. Or even why he can’t do this at his  _ own _ law firm.”

 

Donna stops on the next landing, which curves around to a final set of stairs to bring them to the second floor. Mike spares a glance over the edge of the railing, back down to reception, then meets her amused gaze.

 

“Yeah, but his law firm doesn’t have a sweet ass staircase, does it?” She pats the railing for good measure. Mike scoffs, and it's almost a laugh. “Plus, his firm has a  _ Donna _ . And a Mike. Invaluable, really. It’s  _ lost _ on me why he’d bring  _ us _ here to finalise the merger for such a historic firm.”

 

He only graces her with an eye roll, heading for the final flight of stairs. She joins him, still grinning, that cheeky look refusing to leave her eyes.

 

The last flight are, in fact, the worse. They are the tallest set, with the main floor of the firm standing at two storeys above its reception. Here, the offices open up similar to Pearson Specter Litt, all that was missing from theirs was the atmosphere this building uniquely held in its depths. The similarities even extended to the elevators, which Mike just groans at, and Donna’s grins widens tenfold.

 

“You’re an evil woman,” he declares, as she leads him into the offices.

 

“And you need a good reminder about whose in charge, sometimes,” she throws over shoulder in that sickeningly sweet, teasing, tone of voice. Mike just shakes his head, laughing, careful not to trip over the old-fashioned carpet as they weave into the building.

 

Harvey is in a conference room at the back of the building, tucked away with yet more archive boxes and files, looking immaculate as ever. The only evidence he’d been hauled up on this case for weeks was the pronounced line on his forehead.

 

“Nice of you two to show up.” He beckons for the boxes in Mike’s arms without looking up, a demanding hand waved vaguely in his direction. 

 

Mike’s just set them on the table when Donna gives an innocent shrug. “It would have been earlier, but Mike just  _ insisted _ we take the stairs.”

 

Mike gives her one look: _a_ very _evil_ _woman_. She smiles sweetly in return. An exchange Harvey doesn’t see, because he’s already digging through the new boxes. He does say, once he finds what he’s looking for, “There won’t be any stairs left if I don’t finalise Kleiner’s deal by tonight.”

 

And therein is their problem, and Harvey’s headache, worsening by the day. Kleiner was historic, yes, which meant he would settle for nothing less than the best. This meant Harvey, and an above-and-beyond merger sale, for Kleiner to achieve the first tier status it deserved, after finalising its sale to Pork and Wadwell.

 

“Those will help, right?” Mike leans against the desk, eyes wandering over the current papers Harvey was mulling over.

 

He pays Mike no attention, of course, instead meeting Donna’s eyes at the door. “The financials I asked for are in there?” At her nod, he nods as well, then jerks a thumb to the empty chair. “Sit down and help me sort them, once that’s done, I should be able to verify the rest of the offer.” Both Mike and Donna move, and Harvey doesn’t even have to look up to clarify, “ _ Not _ you, Mike. Donna and I need to sort this out. You’ve done good work putting these together for me, so please, take the rest of the afternoon off. I’ll see you tomorrow morning once this is out of the way.”

 

“Oh,” are the first words out of his mouth. “Yeah, no problem, Harvey.” Donna gives him a smile, it’s neither apologetic or jealous, of his demoted status to pack mule or early mark respectively. “Good luck with it.”

 

“You have a good night, Mike,” beckons Donna on his way out.

 

It’s back down the impressive staircase. An early afternoon means he can finish that extra case work for Louis, putting him ahead for the week, or it means he can finish the Deep Space Nine marathon he’s been immersed in, much to Rachel’s chagrin. His invitations to join fell on death, non-sci-fi loving ears.

 

A quiet afternoon sounded like the best bet.

 

The man storming up the stairs, nearly crashing into Mike as he makes his way across the main landing, changes those plans quickly. He’s dressed in an immaculate suit, which usually would make his red face comical, instead something uneasy settles itself in Mike’s chest. All his intuitions recently had been right, notably about Harvey, so the feeling he recognises all-too-well has him following the furious man back down the route Donna took him.

 

Sure enough, he’s already in a heated conversation with Harvey by the time Mike has caught up with him. The two of them are halfway down the corridor, words growing louder by the moment, and words which screech to a halt when Harvey sees Mike at the end of the corridor.

 

“Mr Pork-” he tries again, softer, his eyes still on Mike. They say:  _ go _ ,  _ I’ve got this _ .

 

The feeling in Mike’s chest says otherwise. “No, Harvey, you listen to me! I want this deal pulled! You  _ will _ do it, or so help me, it’ll be  _ your _ job I’m after next!”

 

“It’s already signed off.” Technically a lie, and likely the source of this man’s - the real Mr Pork, the opposite side of the merger - anger.

 

“I knew you were a glorified  _ idiot _ ,” the words are heated, but the finger Mr Pork jabs at Harvey is worse, “but I didn’t know you couldn’t differentiate between a handshake and a signature. I don’t know what kind of lawyers Jessica lets run around these days, but certainly can’t be the mail boy she’s letting headline the biggest case of the year.”

 

Harvey, to his credit, only betrays his anger with a twitch of his jaw. Only a person trained at reading him would see it, which is why Mike doesn’t leave the corridor, and why Donna gets to her feet in the room behind Harvey.

 

“ _ Jackson _ ,” tries Harvey, measured this time, “I’m taking this to Mr Kleiner. If you want out of the deal, fine, but I’m not the one you come in here and push around.” A step towards the end of the corridor, where Mike is, and he can see the words he wants to say hidden behind the set of Harvey’s shoulders.

 

A disbelieved huff from Mr Pork, but he follows Harvey’s move, which is when he notices Mike staring at the two of them. The huff turns into an offended laugh.

 

“Oh, of course.” Jackson Pork waves a hand at Mike. He approaches, and Mike’s rooted to the spot between the cruelty in Mr Pork’s eyes, and the whole-body eye roll Harvey does behind him. “Did he call you to clean him up after our spat?” The meaning behind those words are lost on Mike, but he goes on, “After all, isn’t that your job? Harvey’s coveted associate: shit-all lawyer, but the best man for him to cry to? Or,” He looks back at Harvey now, who has recovered, and then at Mike. “What was it recently? Him collapsing in court, you spending all your time fussing over him rather than winning that textbook case? Something like that.”

 

_ Oh _ . Oh, shit. What a time for this to bite them in the ass.

 

Harvey has already rounded on Mr Pork, the three of them at the end of the corridor, just off the landing. They’ve garnered a few looks already, as well as the full attention and worry Donna. The feeling of  _ not right _ is mutual between them, by now, and its ugly face just fully showed itself.

 

“Jackson, you better  _ watch yourself _ -”

 

It’s like watching a bull - Harvey, now angry - and the bull tamer - Jackson, fully intending to pull teeth. Being caught in the middle could prove catastrophic, regardless of what they do to each other. They stop practically nose to nose. Harvey’s jaw is clenched so hard Mike is concerned for the state of his teeth. Jackson isn’t intimidated however, meeting Harvey’s eyes with a stone-cold gaze of his own. 

 

“No, Harvey,” he answers, voice now low, “I’m here to tell  _ you _ to watch yourself. You messed up my deal, I want it reverted, and I’m not leaving until I’m  _ sure _ Kleiner is going under tonight without me.”

 

“No, you listen to  _ me _ .”

 

“Harvey,” Donna, who’s steadily approaching from the conference room, concern in her eyes. Mike’s lips go dry.

 

Harvey goes on, “You come in here about your deal, fine, but you come to  _ me _ insulting Jessica and my associate. The only place that’s going to get you is the ground after I beat the  _ shit _ out of you.”

 

“ _ Harvey _ ,” she tries again, more insistent.

 

He’s not listening of course, and Mike’s just watching the anger bubble further and further onto Jackson’s face. He’s quickly turning red again. “Then you  _ definitely _ won’t be able to save  _ your _ shitty firm either, or what’s left of your fuck-all reputation when I smear it through the mud. Then - what was it you said before, my job? After I’m done with you, any law firm worth their money will laugh you  _ straight _ out the door.”

 

They have an audience now, Mike has realised. The atmosphere is pressing on the back of his head where people are staring Harvey and Jackson. It’s the reason for Donna’s insistence and likely, Mr Pork’s sudden silence.

 

The words digest. Both for Harvey, who backs down from Mr Pork’s face, and for Jackson himself, who looks on the side of barely-contained rage. And also for their audience, who are eerily quiet. The look in Donna’s eyes confirms that yes, the entire firm had stopped to watch their argument, the argument between their soon-to-be-boss and their lawyer.

 

“Alright, Harvey.” Mr Pork also backs down, but he’s still set as a stone, eyes narrowed to slits. “You want to play it that way, fine.” He turns sharply on his heel and he’s off, back towards the stairs. He shoves bodily past Mike, purposefully, as he goes.

 

The dismissal, the shove, all his words - they all set Harvey off more. He’s moving again before Donna can grab his arm and Mike can say anything. “You think I’m done with you yet?”

 

They stop again, face to face at the top of the stairs. Everybody watches.

 

“Yes, Harvey, I think we’re quite done.” Mr Pork now does take a look around, giving a nod to their audience. At the acknowledgement, most of the heads go back down, or feet keep moving. Jackson just smiles. “The entirety of your client’s firm just heard you make your threats to me, clear as day. You seem to have done my work for me.”

 

From behind Mike, Donna whispers, “Oh, fuck  _ you _ …”

 

“And they also heard you say you want to revert the deal,” Harvey goes on, but as a trained Harvey reader, Mike can see the shadow which works its way across Harvey’s face; Jackson was right. “that will save their firm. Their jobs. The things I am working to save, and you just shit all over it to stick it to me and my firm.”

 

Jackson just shakes his head. “I’ll see you in court, Harvey. Please, enjoy arguing against all my witnesses when I sue you for harassment and file for a restraining order.”

 

Something crosses Harvey’s face, at the same time that feeling returns in the pit of Mike’s stomach, and Marriott Kleiner Jr. appears on the landing with demands on his lips.

 

Harvey hangs his head, and says to Mr Pork’s retreating back, “Be sure to stop at the sty on the way home. They’ll put you to bed with the rest of the pigs.”

 

The resulting happens all at once. Mr Kleiner says something sharp and demanding, Donna starts towards Harvey, a vein bulges on Jackson’s forehead, and Mike’s stomach drops out from under him. There’s a beat, then Mr Pork grabs Harvey by the lapels, hard, and pushes him down the stairs.

 

The sudden explosion of noise is astounding - the yells of shock, the horrified gasps, the noise Harvey makes as he hits the flight of stairs head first.

 

“Oh my god,” is what Mike hears clearly, from his own lips. “Oh my god.”

 

By the time Mike has caught up, someone has grabbed the stunned Mr Pork, and Harvey is a crumpled pile at the bottom of the stairs. Mike remembers counting them on the way up - forty-seven steps - and the hardwood under his feet. He’s halfway down already, rushing towards Harvey with Donna on his heels.

 

He’s on his side, face pressed into the red carpet. Mike’s heart is hammering so loud he can’t hear what Donna says, he can only see Harvey; twisted and mangled Harvey, broken Harvey, hurt Harvey,  _ dead _ Harvey-

 

Words rush to the front of his mind: blunt force trauma, head trauma, brain bleed, dead. Dead, dead, dead. Pictures follow, images conjured up by an eleven year old as he tried desperately to understand. They are bloody, gruelly, disgusting.

 

Harvey can’t be any of those things. Mike won’t allow it.

 

Red hair leans down to Harvey and Mike follows, crashing to his knees. He sees the concerned look Donna spares him, and also the relief which washes over her face when her fingers ghost over Harvey’s neck - a pulse, his mind provides him. Harvey has a pulse.

 

Yet, the images do not go away.

 

Other people join them at the bottom of the stairs, but nobody else dares touch him. Whether it’s the intensity of Donna’s gaze, Mike’s own blank stare at his crumpled friend, the shock of it all, or other words floating around in his peripheral: _spine don’t move him_ _unconscious we’ve called an ambulance four minutes_.

 

“Mike.” There’s Donna, which he  _ does _ hear, because her hand is on his arm. Red hair pools across her shoulder - red like blood, Harvey’s blood. She tries again, forcing down the imagery from his overactive mind, “Michael.”

 

He swallows thickly at the name. Donna takes it for acknowledgement, her thumb trailing across his arm. Soothing. Her smile is gentle as she leans closer.

 

“He’ll be okay. It’s okay.”

 

His head catches up to her words quickly, and the rest of the room follows. First: how she doesn’t quite believe that herself. Second: the bustling sense of urgency engulfing the building, chasing away the rest of what Mike admired about it. Third: Harvey groans, it’s soft, but Donna’s attention is on him immediately, hand shooting out to his shoulder.

 

Mike’s eyes follow the movement, the soft exchange which follows, the terrified look in Harvey’s eyes when they crack open to meet Donna’s. The red hair cuts them off from everybody else’s prying eyes. Last time he was intruding, now he’s joining in, because Harvey’s eyes find him, too.

 

“Harvey.” He surges forward, as close as he can. “I’m here.”

 

That promise is fulfilled between him and Donna for quite some time, but once they hit the road, that’s that.  The wait which follows is almost familiar, except last time the doctor’s words had been  _ food poisoning _ and  _ exhaustion _ , not  _ fractures  _ and  _ neck trauma  _ and  _ head injury _ .

 

That sends it all crashing back to reality.

 

It’s been an hour since that conversation, and the shitty coffee cup is just about crushed to death between Mike’s fingers as he waits, when Donna slides back into the chair beside him.

 

“Hey,” she says, but it’s weighted and tired. She plucks the styrofoam from between his fingers all the same, depositing it onto the empty seat next to her. “Holding up okay?” Mike can only laugh at that. Donna scoffs, too, shaking her head. “I know, stupid question.”

 

“No, Donna,” he rushes to quiet her, because she’s as concerned as he is, “it’s - it’s not that. You’re fine. I’m just…”

 

“... hopelessly worried and incredibly angry? Yeah.” She leans back into the uncomfortable chair, crossing her arms. “Me too.” Then she shakes her head, eyes still on the opposite wall. A sideways glance reveals the emotion keeping her jaw taught, and her eyes heavy. Her voice is thick when she goes on, “Jessica will be here in fifteen minutes. Louis too.” Then, softer, “You should call Rachel, too.”

 

“And tell her what?” The question comes out more hostile than he intends, as does his gaze when he turns to Donna. “That Harvey could have died because some jealous idiot didn’t want him to have the last word?”

 

He owes her an apology later, because she takes it in stride. “Exactly that.”

 

Muling it over, the silence lasts all but three seconds before he’s on his feet and calling Rachel. Turns out, she’s in Jessica’s car and she’s as concerned as everybody else. Mike’s got an armful of Donna as soon as he puts the phone down, the two of them sharing apologies and words of comfort.

 

By the time Harvey’s permitted visitors, a grand five hours after his admission, he’s dead asleep - and the  _ dead _ echoes around Mike’s mind like a bell the whole walk from the waiting room to Harvey’s room. It’s almost the same as last time, but the peaceful atmosphere is missing. Harvey’s face isn’t soft his time, and nor is Donna’s as she takes a seat next to the bed.

 

Mike’s still frozen in the doorway, because Harvey’s propped up against three pillows and looking like someone had played patchwork with his skin. There’s a thick bandage around his head, an awfully yellow neck brace swallowing the rest of his face, and another one poised along his left leg where the covers are pulled back.

 

The words from the doctor return: _head injury, neck trauma, fractures._ _Dead_. They tease him, they tease the eleven year old tucked away, until Donna beckons him over with a soft smile and her outstretched hand.

 

“It’s fine, Mike. He’s fine. Just resting.” She beckons him again. “Come on. Sit with me.”

 

The rest of their party handles it better, but it’s awful all the same. Louis leaves first, followed shortly by Jessica, with talks of lawsuits amok between them. Mike doesn’t have the will to join them, not while Harvey is like this. Rachel is yawning when it hits ten P.M., and the suggestion of home is murmured by Mike at three minutes past ten when she settles against his shoulder. She just looks up at him, and Donna’s eyes are on him, too. They weigh on him like the rest of the day.

 

“It’s fine,” he tells them. “I know he hates waking up alone, but I know you’ll stay, Donna. We’ll come back in the morning.”

 

Donna kisses both their cheeks goodnight and they all hug, the three of them, for a very long time.

 

The morning is quiet. He brings a sleepy Donna some coffee, has a quick chat to the doctor, and takes a long look at Harvey, who is still resting, on his way out. He's awake when Mike drops in in the afternoon, still looking as bruised and battered as he did in the morning, minus the ugly neck brace. He still looks uncomfortable, but his eyes brighten at Mike, and there’s a genuine smile on his face.

 

“Hey,” the damn bastard says, all casual, but his voice is rough.

 

“Harvey.” It seems so easy to forget it could have been much worse, seeing him sitting up, talking, looking worried  _ about Mike _ as he sits down next to Donna. “It’s good to see you up.”

 

“It’s good to  _ be _ up.”

 

“How you feeling?”

 

Mike’s never seen anyone radiate  _ unimpressed _ more in their life. “Yeah, alright.” Then he reconsiders, “Like I got pushed down a flight of stairs. So, yeah, pretty shitty. I hurt like hell.”

 

The answer shouldn’t be reassuring, yet it is. Mike lets it wash over him for a moment: Harvey laying here half-lidded, his fingers ghosting over Donna’s, his gaze soft on Mike, the contentness he’s suddenly radiating, on top of how unimpressed he is about his predicament. All of that; Harvey pointedly  _ caring _ before his eyes, addressing their rightful concern, comforting them with dark brown eyes that say,  _ yes, I’m okay _ .

 

Mike’s hand joins Donna’s and there the three of them sit in silence, holding hands. It’s a nice time for reflection, for Harvey to relax against the pillows, for Donna to lean against Mike’s shoulder.

 

It’s a time later when Harvey breaks the silence, his voice laden with sleep, “You know.” They both look up at his voice, and he’s smiling that devilish smile he reserves for really bad jokes, “I can see why they call him Pig.”

 

All three of them, despite themselves, break out into laughter. The image is too vivid in Mike’s mind: a pig in a suit, red like the man’s face had been, or a pig roasting over a fire on a spit, angry eyebrows draw to his face. It’s a better image than the rest, so he latches onto it, keeps a hold of Harvey’s hand and accepts his space here at his bedside.

 

The suit against Pork and Wadwell is filed the next day, the firm to become Wadwell, Kleiner and Rutherford in the coveted Kleiner building. Harvey spends another two weeks couped up in hospital, escaping to his condo with his leg hugged by an offensively pink cast and excessive internet searching about hair regrowth.

 

“It doesn’t even look that bad.” Donna gives what’s left of his hair a ruffle, and he bats her away, scowling. There’s no heat behind it, of course, which means Mike can laugh at the two of them. “You’re definitely challenging your inner Walter White.”

 

Harvey just regards her with pointed look. “I’ll kick the both of you out right now, unless you stop teasing me and your references improve.  _ Breaking Bad _ , Donna, really?”

 

“Can’t you see it?” She’s seated next to Harvey, but her eyes are now on Mike, the biggest grin on her face. “Maybe if he looked a little grumpier, wait, hang on-” She turns and presses an obnoxiously loud kiss to his cheek.

 

Instead, Harvey just looks mortified. It leaves Mike in stitches, head thrown back against the couch. The rest of their movie marathon continues mostly in peace, only broken by Donna pointing out each bald character she can see, and Harvey takes the rest of it in stride.

 

They finish off their beers by midnight and Mike says goodnight by one A.M. “Unlike some,” are his parting words, “I have work in the morning.” He presses a goodnight kiss to Donna’s cheek and claps Harvey on the back, giving his propped up leg a pat for good measure. “Have a good night, you two.”

 

He turns to give a wave at the door, quick enough to see Donna settle her head against Harvey’s chest, and Harvey to loop his arm around her shoulders. They both smile at him and bid him goodnight.

 

By the time Harvey returns to the office, a grand eight weeks later, his arrival with Donna is not something that surprises Mike. He chances it once, just because he can, on the second day when there’s a quiet moment.

 

“So.” He levels him with his best grin that says both  _ I knew it _ and  _ I’m happy for you _ . “You and Donna, huh?”

 

The look Harvey gives him in return means he never chances it again, but it’s clear he got the message.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is finishing fics on time?

The defendant’s name is Steve Rogers. As in, Mr. Steve Rogers, Captain Roger,  _ the _ Captain America.

 

It’s a shame the real superhero isn’t grey and balding, living in a retirement home and committing corporate episonge from his wheelchair. Harvey doesn’t let him call  _ that _ cool, but he does allow Mike to call him Cap’n, plus a mock salute or two. It doesn’t help their case, however, that they’re arguing against a ninety year old man who denies all connection to the conspiracy. 

 

Their evidence is circumstantial at best with the word of their client, his ex-wife forty years his junior, smeared in the hearing. And anything else they say about the opposition’s character, well. That just makes them look like assholes.

 

“Nothing new there,” is Harvey’s magnificent argument to that, bought up again when they’re settled into the back of Ray’s car.

 

“ _ Ninety _ years old, Harvey.” Mike just looks at him, eyebrows raised, mouth agape in vague disbelief once again. “And now we have a jury to hate us, not just the Judge.”

 

And in reply, Harvey actually looks annoyed: his arms crossed, one unimpressed eyebrow raised, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. At not being able to rip into an elderly man, thief of their client’s trade secrets or no. “Then we need to find something to keep us alive at that trial.”

 

“If you have any bright ideas, I’m all ears.”

 

“I might have one.” Now Harvey moves, leaning over to rifle through his bag in the aisle of the car. He re-emerges with a non-descript folder which means nothing to Mike, until he adds, “But you definitely won’t like it.”

 

“We are  _ not _ going to Steve’s son. You heard what Marie said.”

 

Harvey gives a nonchalant shrug. “And I heard what she  _ didn’t _ say. He might be a shady son of a bitch, but he’s a shady son of a bitch who might know something.” He’s flipping through the folder now, eyes scanning the pages of Marie’s deposition. “You know, save his ex-mother-in-law’s business. Get himself a cut.”

 

“And screw over his elderly father.”

 

Waving a hand, Harvey adds, “Side effects.”

 

There’s a certain air of arrogance about him, the  _ I want to win _ radiating off him in waves, that Mike knows this is a fight  _ he’s _ not going to win this fight. And if he considers it himself, well, it’s clear finding Steve Rogers’ son is their only hope. There are…. many references to be made there, later. “Okay, Harvey,” he agrees, just short of a sigh. “If you think it’ll work. Pissing off the client to save her business. I’m with you.”

 

Harvey’s impatience for wrapping up this case rears its head two days before trial, where they discover, in fact, they can’t reach Marie’s ex-son-in-law. Short of asking their client, Harvey’s all but pulling out his newly-regrown hair. 

 

“I’m just going to go down there,” he announces while they’re hauled up in his office, both their sleeves long since rolled up. “Without  _ something _ , Captain America is going to wipe the floor with us like the German scum we are.”

 

“First, that was absolutely horrible. Please don’t make me suffer an analogy like that from you ever again.” Mike scrubs a hand through his own hair, bemusedly watching Harvey glare at him in the corner of his eye. “And second, you’re sure that’s a good idea? The man’s just witnessed a messy divorce. He probably wants nothing to do with his stepmother  _ and _ lawyers. I hate to break it to you, Harvey, but we’re both.”

 

His words fall of deaf ears, of course. “But you also don’t just,” Harvey gestures vaguely. “up and disappear after a divorce like that. Either he’s hiding something, or... ” He trails off, a very un-Harvey thing to do.

 

“Or what?”

 

Harvey seems to be considering it himself. Mike watches the path his thoughts take him; Harvey’s eyes darken, he purses his lips, then puts his hands on his hips. Lastly, he regards Mike, the hint of a smirk of his face. “ _ Or _ ,” he says, “something’s happened to him. You know, like a real superhero movie.”

 

Mike blinks. He has to, to keep up with Harvey’s mental gymnastics. “Wait, let me get this straight.” He rises to meet him. “You think, not only that Steve and his son are in on something together, that Steve then _got rid_ _of him_ so this trial goes through.”

 

Spreading his hands, Harvey shrugs. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

 

“You sound completely mad.” Harvey just rolls his eyes at him, meaning he’s  _ serious _ . Mike rushes to suggest, “Look, the ninety year old corporate criminal has thrown us all off a bit. I know he’s not our usual brand -” Harvey turning away cuts him off, even more so when he grabs his jacket. Mike starts, “Wait, you’re not seriously going after this.”

 

Harvey throws a look over his shoulder that says  _ dare me not to.  _

 

Mike follows after him, gawking, and hot on his heels out the office door. “And  _ now _ ? It’s late.”

 

“ _ Late _ ?” The mock offense rings through in Harvey’s voice, and there’s almost a laugh there,  _ almost _ . “I know you like the old man jokes, but that was just bad.”

 

There’s that same air of  _ I do want I want _ following Mike up the corridor, a companion to his sigh. There will be no talking Harvey out of this today, not if it has a chance of saving this case. “You should be glad it wasn’t the prostate.”

 

He receives a noise of amusement in reply. “I’m glad to see you’ve graduated past middle school jokes.” Harvey presses the call button for the elevator, then they’re shoulder to shoulder, meaning Mike gets a front row seat to the Harvey Specter smirk, a complement to the arrogance in the pinch of his shoulders. “You know what they say about late bloomers.”

 

“That they’re always more intelligent?”

 

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.” 

 

Harvey keeps smirking, Mike rolls his eyes, and the conversation disappears as the elevator arrives. It’s replaced by companionable silence, helping to chase away Mike’s doubt with Harvey’s gut feelings and this rollercoaster of a case.

 

Some sliver of that doubt returns upon pulling up to the subject of Harvey’s wild theories: a rundown stretch of old houses that run the length of the street, dark and foreboding, definitely somewhere that qualifies as  _ the last avenue _ .

 

“Uh,” Mike says intelligibly, when Harvey slides out of the taxi like he owns the place already, and looks up and down the block. “Captain America’s estranged son lives  _ here _ ?”

 

“It’s the address Steve gave the Court,” replies Harvey.

 

Behind them, the taxi pulls away, casting their shadows across the pavement as it goes. Mike moves closer to the streetlight hanging over their heads, shooting a frown at Harvey.

 

“And you  _ still _ came down here. In a taxi.”

 

Harvey sighs, like he’s had this argument with himself already.. “I  _ came here _ to win this case,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it. He gives a nod to the house in front of them, then starts up the pavement, begrudgingly so. “Come on.”

 

Mike follows, of course, right up to the top of the stairs and when he presses the buzzer. The wind picks up when they wait that awkward five-second time interval, looking at neither the bell or each other. Harvey pulls his coat around him tighter, presses it again, and leans closer to peer in the nearby window.

 

“Guess nobody’s home,” Mike says, when Harvey starts working at his jaw. Having to  _ wait _ . “Or, it  _ is _ late. The guy might be sleeping, or--”

 

“I’ll check around the back,” Harvey announces, cutting him clean off, and he’s already on the gravel that substitutes for a driveway, which crunches under his expensive shoes.

 

The idea seems so absurd, even just  _ picturing _ Harvey scouring around in a place like this. It’s where he almost ended up, after all, somewhere not-quite-backward but backward enough everybody only recognised the atmosphere from those old cop shows. They would never pass through.  _ Especially _ people like Harvey.

 

Still, Mike stands guard at the front door. It was for a case, after all, not his nor Harvey’s enjoyment. They were here trying to put to bed this bullshit case, so the associates could stop poking fun at him, that he was losing to a ninety year old man named after the country he was cheating money out of.

 

What his life had become.

 

“Get --  _ get away from me _ !” Now,  _ that _ is not Harvey’s voice, and those are not Harvey’s oxfords scuffling about in the dark. Nor is it Harvey’s gun which goes off, a crack through the dead of the night, a noise which pierces through every fibre of his being. It startles Mike wide awake; heart hammering, eyes wide, breath caught hard in his throat.

 

He’s scrambling across the gravel before his mind can catch up, reminding him that he should not be running  _ towards _ the gun shot. And yet. 

 

He finds -- the dark. Then as he stumbles closer, blood rushing in his ears, there’s Harvey. Not Harvey-with-a-bullet-through-his-skull. Not hurt Harvey, not  _ dead  _ Harvey. Just Harvey, his face a perfect image of shock, much like Mike’s. 

 

A gun. The dark. Images rising up in the forefront of his mind too quickly, far too quickly, like the onset of panic as it grips his limbs like a vice--

 

“Harvey,” he gets out, finally, grabbing the man’s shoulder and holding onto him, firm. It forces the rest of his panic out of his body.

 

“He went that way.” Harvey just points towards the dark, to the other end of the house.  _ The back _ . Harvey disappearing into the dark, and nothing but black turns up when Mike goes looking. He’s gone, disappeared,  _ dead-- _

 

“Did he try to  _ shoot _ you?”

 

What a stupid question. Yet, it warrants a more stupid answer, “Yes.” Harvey drags in a breath, painfully slow, and Mike feels his heart rise to his throat. “Think he got me, too.”

 

In slow motion, Mike’s eyes are drawn to Harvey’s shoulder, opposite to where his fingers are currently splayed. The blood pooling on his immaculate suit, the sudden white pallor of Harvey’s skin, the way he lists off to the side just so. Mike guides him slowly to the ground, with his back pressed up against the side of the shitty house. He hits the ground with a grunt.

 

“Shit,” is what Mike’s brain provides him with next, complete with the white noise. “ _ Shit,  _ Harvey. Shit. Fuck.” 

 

Crouched in front of Harvey, it’s painfully obvious now: the way he holds himself, the harsh pinch of his brow, the screaming sense of not-right that had been shaking him for the better half of the day. The  _ gunshot wound _ on his shoulder, the blood spreading across the fabric of his suit, the look in his eyes as he tries to hold Mike’s eyes.

 

“Hey, listen to me,” he says. “Mike.  _ Mike _ . Listen to me, okay? I need you to help me put pressure on this.”

 

_ Put pressure on this _ . Like they say in the movies. This was a case, they were lawyers, not action heroes or cops with troubled pasts.

 

“ _ Mike _ .” Their eyes meet, finally, and Harvey has the audacity to look sorry. “I’m okay. It’s okay. I just need you to help me with this.”

 

It is  _ not _ okay, Harvey is a  _ bullet _ in his shoulder. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, not in the slightest. Not this case, not his day, not his life. Not like this.

 

Determined, Harvey holds his gaze. “Your jacket. And yes, I’ll buy you a new one. Just -- give it here. Put it here, press down.”

 

Mike shrugs off his jacket, then through the panic threatening to burst out of his chest, puts pressure on the wound. The noise Harvey makes isn’t reassuring in the slightest. It’s something he  _ never _ wants to hear from Harvey, or anyone, again. It adds itself to the playlist on repeat in his head.

 

“I got it,” pants Harvey, but he sounds far away, too far into the dark for Mike to find him. “ _ Mike _ . Look at me, kid. Come on. I’m okay. I got it. You did it.”

 

_ It _ is Harvey propped up in this shitty, run-down driveway. A gunman on the loose. Mike panicking harder than he’s ever panicked in his life. God, what is his life.

 

“I need to call an ambulance,” he gets out, when Harvey looks like he’s about to move, to reassure  _ Mike _ , to pull him out of his stupor. “Shit.” His phone is in his jacket, the jacket that Harvey’s pressing to his shoulder, the shoulder that’s got a  _ bullet _ in it.

 

“Mine’s in my left pocket. You can get it.”

 

He’s  _ still _ looking apologetic when Mike ferries it out, and fumbles the buttons for  _ 911. _ He looks guilty when Mike stumbles over the words of where they are, what happened, what is going to happen. It’s all wrong, all of it. Harvey sitting here like this, Harvey bleeding, Harvey worrying about  _ Mike _ .

 

They say something about staying on the line, but as soon as they tell him there’s an ambulance enroute, it’s that much closer to being fine again. The phone is disregarded for Harvey, who frowns at him as he moves closer.

 

“Mike,” he says again, not as urgently, but he says it all the same. “You did well. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

 

Mike settles in next to him to make sure. Harvey doesn’t seem so apologetic when he uses Mike’s shoulder as a cushion for his head, as opposed to the cool brick of the house behind them both. Thankful, more like. Relieved. Exhausted.

 

The police manage to pull him away, finally, when Harvey’s set up on a gurney in the back of an ambulance. It seems surreal, even more so giving a statement, and then some when he remembers he has no idea where the man who shot Harvey is. Steve Rogers’ son is classed as a fugitive of the law, armed, and highly dangerous. The police assure him they will pursue him with their best assets, and link up with the Judge of their case in the morning.

 

That’s relieving, too. So is climbing into the back of the ambulance with Harvey, feeling nothing short of belonging there. Harvey gives him a weak grin in confirmation.

 

Donna actually  _ cries _ when she crashes into him in the waiting room, bundled in his arms in a tight hug. The two of them make for matching messes.

 

“He’s gonna be okay.” Mike can at least tell her that, because he  _ knows _ that. The words of the paramedic were ringing around his head as clear as a bell, paired with Harvey’s cry of pain, and the crack of the gunshot as it pierced the night. “It was a clean shot. Right through the  _ pectoralis _ minor--”

 

“Alright, alright. Okay.” Donna shushes him with another hug, then they set in for the wait.

 

It’s a short one. Both in time and in essence, because this time, they aren’t waiting for answers. They know, it’s just a matter of  _ fixing _ him. A quip about marriage and illegitimate sons gets them into his room fairly quickly, almost as quickly as Jessica answering Mike’s text that he’s all clear:  _ Give him hell. Gently. _

 

“Harvey,” says Donna, as soon as she steps in the room, “ _ Reginald _ Specter. You are  _ not _ going to do  _ anything _ like that ever again. Do you hear me? Do you know how fast I raced down here? Do you have any idea--”

 

A quiet, “Donna,” shushes her, and stops Mike in the doorway. Harvey is in a sling, slightly paler than usual, but otherwise looks his normal self. He’s not even donned a hospital gown; naked from the waist-up instead, not looking the slightest awkward about it.

 

He embraces Donna with his good arm, but she leans in to kiss him. He obliges, happily, and Mike fights the urge to fulfill his role of illegitimate son by dipping out of the room. Except, he knows he’s welcome.

 

“You scared me to death,” he hears Donna whisper, or maybe she wants him to hear. Regardless, he creeps into the room, and takes his post at the other side of the bed. “I mean it, don’t  _ ever _ do something like that ever again. It was stupid. Reckless. And I don’t think my heart can handle hearing you’ve been  _ shot _ again. Ever.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in return, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. She smiles, then presses a kiss to the top of his head.

 

“I know, you idiot,” she says in return, gently. She meets Mike’s gaze. “I’m sorry, too.”

 

He rests for the better part of the night, leaving Mike and Donna to camp out in the uncomfortable hospital chairs. There’s talk of idiocy between them, hushed and quiet, but also a shared love for Harvey Specter.

 

Harvey wakes to the news they picked up their man, the estranged Sam Rogers, who turned himself in early this morning. Not only for the shooting of a trespasser on his property, but the tapping of many, many phones within Marie’s business, and the direct involvement of his father.

 

“Maybe I should get shot more often,” Harvey tries once, only once, and never again after that.

 

He still appears for Court two days later, donning a blue sling. Mike sits in the front row, Donna, Rachel and Jessica at his side. Louis sits across the walkway. The sentencing is cut-and-dry, and so are Marie’s billables for the next five years, promised to them and then some.

 

It calls for a celebratory dinner, but it’s held at Harvey’s condo. Unheard of, practically, even more so when Harvey cooks -- with the aid of Donna’s full set of hands. It’s an apology dinner, as well, Mike notes. A  _ sorry-I-scared-you-all _ dinner, complete with soft smiles, gentle touches and the sense that Mike finally was  _ home _ .

 

What his life had become indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this drabble collection! i hope you enjoyed <3 come and find me on [tumblr](https://talizorahs.tumblr.com) if you want to prompt me or just generally scream.


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